


But he wasn't okay, was he?

by Minkey222



Series: Peter Parker is young, dumb and reckless (and also in constant pain) [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Depression, Graphic Description, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, SERIOUS TRIGGER WARNING, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 22:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15694860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minkey222/pseuds/Minkey222
Summary: Peter knows that he shouldn't have been on his phone during his lesson.He couldn’t listen though.He always had his phone set to notify him when something happens within the general Queens area so when it buzzes in his pocket he couldn’t help himself.'Local Queens child beaten to death after abduction by father.'





	But he wasn't okay, was he?

**Author's Note:**

> OOOOOOOOOOF.
> 
> I am so sorry you guys. I am so, so, sorry you guys.
> 
> This is the lowest of the lowest of the low. It is some HEAVY shit man, heavy ass shit. I had trouble digesting this and if you know me from the rest of my stuff you know it's bad if I struggle. YIKEs. 
> 
> Please, please, please note that it is very ~descriptive~ so please take care. This is the heaviest shit I've ever written. You should know by the fact that I'm even gonna put trigger warnings before the descriptive parts. Please stay safe guys <3
> 
> And if you struggle with anything like Peter please, please, talk to someone about it. It will get better.

Peter knows that he shouldn't have been on his phone during his lesson (lord knows that as good as he is at science he needs all the help he can get in English (and he’s not about to scrape by in his exams)). He should have been listening to whatever his English teacher was waffling on about, Shakespeare’s play about betrayal, disappointment and death, but there were minutes before he could finally leave for the day, his bag by his leg (he doesn’t want a repeat of what happened with Flash). 

 

He couldn’t listen though. 

 

He always had his phone set to notify him when something happens within the general Queens area so when it buzzes in his pocket he couldn’t help himself, even if he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it (he’s a failure, he’s weak that’s why he can’t be trusted anymore (why he’s useless) that’s why he’s not Spider-man. Could never be Spider-man). Peter wishes he hadn’t looked at his phone, thinking that maybe if he hadn’t opened it up, read the headline, maybe if he hadn’t acknowledged it it wouldn’t be true, that it wouldn’t have happened, that his blood wouldn’t run cold and a deep, deep pit of dreadfully heavy guilt wouldn’t have settled in his stomach (he knows that even if he hadn’t read it, he would still find out (it would still have happened (he would still be responsible)))-

 

_ Local Queens child beaten to death after abduction by father. _

 

-That’s the kicker. The school was only down the street, the elementary school connected to his own. They only finish an hour before them (with his extra lesson it’s two hours). Maybe if he’d been quicker, paid more attention, maybe if his body had tuned into the imminent danger (maybe if he hadn’t been such a big failure and gotten the suit taken away (gotten grounded like the stupid kid he is)) maybe he could have stopped this-

 

_ ‘The father of a local Queens child, Travis Flynn (6), has been arrested following complaints of a disturbance in their downtown Queens residence. Several neighbors called the police reporting noises sounding like objects being thrown as well as the sound of crying and screaming. Upon arrival at the residence, police found a scene of horror, as the father, Gabriel Flynn (30), answered the door covered in blood. Inside the apartment the body of Travis was discovered bruised and malformed, clearly having been beaten with various heavy objects. Mr Flynn was immediately apprehended.’ _

 

-Peter takes a deep breath in and continues reading, unable to draw his eyes away from images of the scene-

 

_ ‘After talking to witnesses as well as neighbors it became apparent that Travis had been staying with his maternal grandmother, Diana Perez (54), after being rescued a week prior by local vigilante Spider-Man. Mrs Perez vouched for the hero, stating that “[Mr Flynn] was a monster, who cared more about getting what he wanted than the love and wellbeing of his child”. After talking to the school, Midtown Elementary,  when Mr Flynn arrived to pick up his son during the pre-lunch break he claimed a family emergency. One member of faculty mentioned that it wasn’t uncommon to see parents collect their children after an attack, such as the previous one, as many parents were uneasy about allowing their children to traverse the potentially dangerous streets alone and to hear of ‘family emergencies’ were commonplace as injuries and illnesses were to be expected. When asked why she did not collect Travis or hear that he had been taken from school during the school day, Mrs Perez stated that she was unable to reach the school due to the large amount of damage in the nearby streets after the Robot attack and since the change of guardianship was so short notice it had not yet been altered at the school.’ _

 

-Peter knows where they live. He knows this is his fault. He should have chased after them after the fight. He shouldn’t have just let them go. He should have made sure they were safe.

 

Peter touches the cut on his side. It still hasn’t healed. On the surface there is only a thin pink line telling where the talon had sliced through but to the touch it is warm, bruised and throbbing. It is deep and under the surface it is still raw.-

 

_ ‘When asked about motive Mr Flynn has no comment. We will update as any new information comes to light.’ _

 

-And Peter was crying and he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He pulls his hood up and sinks down into his uncomfortable plastic chair, the bag’s weight against his leg seeming to ground him to the present moment as his head runs in circles and circles and circles screaming at him that this was  _ his fault _ . Words were cloying at the back of his throat, his breath was sticky and weighted and each one filled each lung with a black fog, his throat irritated, his lip bleeding as he tries to stop noise from escaping. He’s glad he’s in the back. He’s trying to breathe but he can’t, his head is filled with all the words he wishes he could say to that little boy he rescued, beaten, battered and abused as he was. Covered in watercolour bruises and bones shining in the light of the moon. He thinks about the white carpeted floor covered in red, blending into the garish red and blue Spider-Man colour scheme (was he in Travis’ last thoughts? (Had Travis been calling out to him as his bone were broken and each breath became a struggle?)). He thinks about the ivory skin, painted in blues and purples and red-ish hues, the dips and contours where ribs have snapped, bones are shattered, the skull dented, permanently extinguishing the bright light of his young soul. 

 

Peter wishes that it had been him instead.

 

He stands suddenly, his hands clenched at his sides. His teacher questions him but it gets lost in the distance. There’s nothing in his head at all. Nothing but the hatred and anger and sorrow and pain. Nothing but the guilt, the recognition and the blame. His head wants to hang down, looking at the floor but he can’t move. He walks out of the room, grabbing his bag as he leaves. As he walks his throat is closing and nothing could come out no matter how hard he tried. The dusty layer of confusion and sadness and emptiness was choking him, the place where his passion had once been was now hollow, where he had had affection for Travis was now burned to the ground. 

 

His pace was fast, his head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the noise of his heels dragging along the concrete sidewalk was grating to his ears. His head so foggy and full and empty that he couldn’t explain much about why he felt this way all he knew was that it wasn't right. Nothing about this was right. Why should he, Spider-man, the hero (the broken one) be left unharmed but Travis, bright, innocent Travis should be the one dead right now. Nothing about this made sense. Of all the things that had happened to Peter in his life why wasn’t he the one lying in the morgue. Why wasn’t he dead? Maybe if he was dead the world could have taken one life for another, maybe Travis would be safe (Peter knows that’s not how the world works (Peter doesn’t stop wishing it any less)) at least if he was dead he wouldn’t be feeling this utter devastation. Maybe he wouldn’t be realizing just how much of a failure he actually is.

 

What’s the use of a superhero that never saves anybody? What’s the use of a superhero that can’t save themself first?

 

And the truth is that there is no use for a superhero like him- no use at all. If he can’t save people, if he can’t use his powers for good, if he can’t handle the great responsibility, then he’s nothing, without Spider-man who is he? He’s nothing- worse than nothing, he’s just puny Penis Parker, orphan, weakling, wanted by no one, not his family, not his friends, not Mr Stark- not even himself anymore. He sighs.

 

His hands shake as he unlocks the front door, missing the lock several times and hating himself even more every time he fails to put the key in. Falling into his apartment he remembers that May is still at work. That’s fine by him, he doesn’t want her to see him like this- doesn’t want her to realize how much of a failure he is to her (how much of a danger he is to her (one day he’ll come home and find her gone or dead and it will be all his fault)). His sobs aren’t quiet, in fact they’re heaving and loud and messy and tears and snot dribble down his face as he stumbles blind eyed to his bedroom. He chucks his bag on his bed but doesn’t sit down- instead choosing to stand, swaying in the middle of his room. 

 

He’s such a burden. Looking around the room he takes note of how much space he takes up. He has the bigger of the two bedrooms in the apartment, not that it means much in this small place they call their home, May insisting that he needs his own space ‘cause he’s a growing boy after all and the extra space would remind her of what they lost after Ben and the sorrow in her eyes after he had argued against it (the pain saying ‘take it please, I can’t offer you much more’) Peter had relented and taken it. They had moved to a smaller apartment after Ben- not being able to afford such a large place without his main portion of the income even with May’s extra shifts. It was Peter’s fault that Ben died and now it’s his fault that May is exhausted and overextended and he knows she has migraines frequently but she hides them from him but he  _ knows _ she’s tired and in pain but he can’t do anything about it because he’s such a burden on her. 

He doesn’t have to be such a burden on her. Not anymore.   
  
He doesn’t have to be such a burden on anybody ever again.

 

Not if he can help it.

 

Walking to the bathroom seems to take a while, his eyes all gummy and gritty from the tears, his hands and legs shaking as he stumbles down the hallway, his breathing stuttered, he feels along the wall for direction, the blood rushing in his ears. He knows what he needs to do but he’s unsure and wobbly but certain all the same.

 

He needs this to end.

 

When he arrives in the bathroom he looks at the white tiles on the floor, slightly yellowed with age and feels a distant sorrow about ruining it but then again all his feelings are distant at the moment. He’s sure his blood will be easy enough to clean up- some hydrogen peroxide and it’ll be like nothing ever happened- like he never happened. As he rummages through the cupboards he absently wonders what will happen to all his things. He finds he doesn’t really matter. The most he can hope for is that May will sell his belongings and use the money to look after herself better, take more time off at work, find a nicer place but he doesn’t think that she’ll do that- it’s just not who she is. Most likely she’ll give it away (at least Peter will be helping someone else (maybe someone like Travis (they need it more than he does by any extent (at least Peter will finally do some good))), maybe she’ll keep something to remember him by that’ll eventually get put in a box on the shelf and he’ll fade from her mind as she finally finds a life for herself without the added burden of him on her shoulders.

 

He finds what he’s looking for in the cupboard under the sink. It was a present from May for his sixteenth birthday, a proper shaving razor, not a cheap one but a nice sturdy one, the ones that have the single razors in them. At the time he had laughed and blushed a little, ducking his head as May has joked and explained that Ben had had one just like it and that she knows he’s a little young but puberty doesn’t have an exact time frame so who knows when he’ll start growing facial hair (it seems like Peter never will). At the time he’d been bashful and grateful (it was so nice, it was heavy in his hands (it was expensive too (he is such a burden))) but he’d never used it, not yet and it seemed such a shame he would ruin it doing this. He never got any spare razors for it since May said that he could ask her for more if he decided he liked it and since he’d never used it he never asked. But Peter was lucky enough that it came with one.

 

It was tricky trying to get the razor out of the metal casing, especially since his head and his hands were so disjointed. He nicked his fingers a few times but eventually he managed to get it free, the metal already starting to cover in red. It doesn’t matter though. This is only the beginning.

 

Peter is still wearing both his jacket and a hoodie since he took neither off on his way in. He feels hot, too hot now, his face starting to turn even redder and the tears that had dwindled as he searched for the razor are now renewed, rolling down his cheeks in fat globules. But he’s not sad (never sad (he’s always okay (he’s always fine))) he’s angry, he’s raging- full of a sudden, distant, dampened anger. He’s claustrophobic, the material too tight on his skin, the cut on his stomach throbbing in time with the pulsing in his head. He needs to get his top off now. He doesn’t want to ruin the coat and he doesn’t mean too but he needs to get it off  _ now _ , it’s too tight and he can’t breathe and the tears burn his eyes and dribble into his mouth and off of his chin and the clothes are  _ too tight _ \- 

 

The tearing of the coat as he flings it to the floor startle him. His hands go limp from where he was starting to tear his hoodie at the seams. His hands falter- this is the hoodie Mr Stark gave him, he can’t rip it, he can’t bear to rip it. The rage melts out of him and his momentary rage is over. All he can feel now is exhaustion, other than that he’s empty. He feels nothing as he pulls the hoodie over his head and folds it and places it neatly on the side.

 

He takes the razor in his hand again.

 

Taking a glance at the hoodie he wonders how Mr Stark will take it. He breathes in and leans against the sink, head dipped. Would it hurt him? Who knows? Peter certainly knows that he won't be anything to cry about. Sure, Queens would miss Spider-man but a new hero will surely pop up in his place. Mr Stark may be sad for a while, as everyone will be “sad” for a while, mourning the loss of a young life but they’d soon enough get over him and forget him. Mr Stark would surely be glad to get rid of such a useless superhero, one that can’t follow orders, one that can’t save people. To think he ever thought he could be an Avenger. He’s not made of stern enough stuff to be an Avenger. He’s hardly a person let alone a hero.

 

He looks into the mirror.

 

He looks awful, his cheeks blotchy, red and wet, eyes puffy and bloodshot, hair ruffled. He’s a little on the skinny side and he has a bruise on his collarbone he doesn’t remember getting. He’s not wearing his usual type of t-shirt, the ones with the puns he’s been collecting from thrift stores and yard sales for years. No, today he’s wearing a plain grey shirt, one he got in a set new as a present from May. They were plain but soft even before he wore them in. They were the softest things he owned in fact. He would hate to ruin it. He slips it over his head, the fabric tousled his hair and he folds it and places on top of the hoodie.

 

He takes another breath in. 

 

Looking down at the slice across his stomach he exhales. Prodding it with his empty hand he winces. Another reminder of how much of a failure he is. He shakes his head. A single tear escapes but that seems to be all there is left. He seems to be completely empty now. Nothing left inside.

Peter guesses it’s time then.

 

{Trigger warning - starts now}

 

Holding his breath for what seems like hours he moves the razor to his wrist gently prodding it against the tender flesh. It’s sharps, very sharp. Peter guesses that’s a good thing but all his thoughts are garbled together and illegible. He presses a little harder and he feels the skin split lightly under the pressure. He flinches and pulls away but his it’s already healed when he looks. He guesses he’ll need more pressure than that.

 

So he decides to bite the bullet, so to speak.

 

Putting his hand back to where it was he begins adding pressure, much more pressure than before and then in one movement he drags it across all the way from the crook of his elbow to the curve of his wrist. He nearly drops the razor for his shock. He keeps a hold of it though. His pupils restricted to tiny pinpoints, his head pounds. He repeats the motion again on the same arm. The blood immediately bubbles up and pours like tiny waterfalls down the sides of his forearms.

 

Oh God, what is he doing?

 

He doesn’t think it in a way that makes him want to call for help, it’s more of a morbid thought. Why is he doing this? Why not? His hands start to shake as he swaps hands, his breath tight in his chest. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to make straight lines this time. Does it really matter? He huffed a laugh as he slowly sinks to the floor.

 

His phone buzzes in his back pocket. He had forgotten he still had it on him

 

He takes it out with a bloodied hand, struggling to get a grip on it. A estranged part of him hopes that it’s someone who cares about him, someone telling him help is on the way. To stop what he’s doing. That same part of him hopes it’s Mr Stark telling him that he’s on his way, that he’ll save him, protect him. That same part of him throws the phone at the wall when no messages appear, when no calls come through. 

 

A game notification- good old Parker luck.

 

He doesn’t need help not really.

 

Shakily he moves his left hand, unused to gripping anything in it, to his right arm and copies the action yet again after a moment's hesitation.

 

{Trigger warning- ends now}

 

His head wobbles. He feels almost blackout drunk again. The taste of gin tingling on his lips. He sinks even further to the floor. His hands are cold. His feet are numb and he absently wonders if this is the pain of dying. His eyes are heavy. They want to close and he lets them. His mind brings him images of May and Mr Stark, Ned and MJ (Skip and Jake and Flash (but he won’t let his moment be ruined by their actions)). He loves his friends, his family and he briefly wonders if he made the wrong decision but there’s nothing he can do now. His body is heavy. He sinks like a rock in a woozy ocean. His head is light, his panting breath is shaky and stunted. He thinks he’s going into shock. His heart pounds faster and faster only to slow and freeze and melt.

 

That’s when he hears it.

 

Peter was absently aware that the front door opened. He heard the lock slide, the door open and someone enter, shuffling their feet, the crinkle of a paper bag, the exhale of an exhausted breath, the door softly shut behind, the drips of water from an umbrella as it’s shaken. He hears all of it but he can’t find the energy to move. 

 

“Peter? Surprise! I brought Thai food” Aunt May calls out. She’s not supposed to be here. She wasn’t supposed to see him like this. He hears her walk by the door towards his bedroom. He hears the door open, the change of footsteps from wooden floor to carpet. The soft indentations in the floor. The confusion in her voice as she calls, 

 

“Peter?”

 

She walks back past him, placing the Thai food on the counter.

 

His phone buzzes again.

 

He hears her footsteps halt. Then turn around. They head back in his direction

 

He realises belatedly he didn’t lock the bathroom door.

 

“Peter?” The worry in her voice was obvious. The way that her steps sped up, her breaths became shallow and quick. As the moments go by he can hear the worry bleed into her, her heart beating so loud he can almost hear it. He wonders if she can smell the blood. He wonders if she knows. She walks past the bathroom door again before she pauses outside, thinks a moment and calls his name again. 

 

He hears her hold the doorknob but she doesn’t open it.

 

“Peter, are you in there?” She asks, her voice high and tight and full of concern, worry and love. He opens his mouth to try to tell her not to come in but his body won’t respond. His eyes want to close so badly.

“Peter Benjamin, if you don’t answer, I’m coming in” and he wants to call out to her. To tell her he’s okay but he can’t even do that. God, he’s such a failure. His eyes are slipping shut. He’s incredibly tired. So incredibly exhausted

“Peter?” She calls one last time before she starts to open the door.

 

It takes a moment before she takes him in before she rushes forwards,

“Oh my God! Peter!”, he guesses the smell hits her first but she’s a trained nurse, she’s used to it. He feels her gentle touch on his arms, on his forehead, in his hair, but it’s far away. He feels a wetness on his face as she pushes towels on his arms, as she cradles him like she use to when he was younger. He supposes that this should hurt, the prodding, the coddling.

 

But it doesn’t.

 

Nothing feels much of anything at all.

 

Not anymore.

 

**Author's Note:**

> YIKKKKKKKKKKKKKKES.
> 
> Just as an aside, I wanted to say sorry about the long weight and the heavy subject (which is pretty much why I took so long to write it) but I wanted to say thank you all so much for all the comments and love you've all been sending my way. I just want you all to know that even though I don't respond to all the comments anymore (which I need to start doing again) know that I read every got damn one and every single one makes me want to a) write more b) smile like a loon. I mean today I got a comment that had me practically sobbing because it was so lovely and sincere and made me realise people actually read my shit ahahahah.   
> So, without getting sappy, I just wanted to just thank you all and even if I can't send a message to all the people I want to thanking them personally just know I have seen it and I appreciate it so much, more than anyone can even imagine.
> 
> So, thank you <3
> 
> (And I'm sorry again)


End file.
